


The Endless

by foxontherun



Category: Sandman, Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fusion, Gen, M/M, Post-Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-02-22
Updated: 2013-02-26
Packaged: 2017-12-03 06:49:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,532
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/695413
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/foxontherun/pseuds/foxontherun
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Crossover with the Sandman series by Neil Gaiman. In which Sherlock has some mysterious relatives, everyone in his family is meddlesome, and he is most definitely not dead. For one very clear reason. Set post-Reichenbach. John discovers who Sherlock's Great Grandfather is, and it comes as a bit of a shock. Especially when he starts having some troublesome dreams. Eventual Johnlock.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Delerium

**Author's Note:**

> I don't have a brit-picker or a beta, so my apologies in advance. This is my first Sherlock fic, and for some crazy reason I decided to make it much more complicated than it had to be, by adding a whole other reality. Blame it on Neil Gaiman.

When John answers the door at 221B Baker St., he blinks for a moment in surprise. The girl that stands before him is one of the oddest people he's come across. Half her hair falls in extravagant rainbow curls down the side of her face, the other half is shaved to the scalp. Her eyes are two different colors - _Hmmm, Heterochromia. Sherlock would have said "Fascinating."_ She's dressed like a straggler from some hip underground electronica show - neon colors, raggedy leather jacket, leg warmers on her forearms, torn fishnets. She smiles up at him blearily.

"Hello Gray Man," she says, as if this is an appropriate thing to call somebody. "Is Sherringford Holmes here?"

John starts to tell her off - he's had enough gawkers coming to ask about Sherlock to last him the rest of his life, then stops. "I don't - _Sherringford_ Holmes"? he asks.

The girl slumps against his doorway. "Sorrry," she says, "I forgot. He hasn't gone by Sherringford in aaages. Sherlock. He's Sherlock now. Is he home?"

John doesn't quite know how to process what's going on. The girl is clearly off her head on some club drug. That or she's just clean off her head. She could be homeless, she certainly looks badly off. "I'm sorry," he manages, finally, shaking his head. "Sherlock's dead. He's been dead for almost 6 months now."

The girl straightens at this, and looks at him with eyes that are suddenly, startlingly clear. "No he's not," she says firmly. "Sherlock's not dead. I saw him last month." John gapes at her.

"Tell him I'm..." her voice trails off and she's suddenly gone. Before John can react. Before he can correct her. Because Sherlock can't be alive. He saw his body. Christ, his eyes. All that blood. No pulse. John feels an instant of sorrow clanging painfully up against his chest. His heart swells tightly, beating fast. He looks up the flight of stairs to 221B and tries to steady himself. He knows that feeling, and he doesn't want it. 

Because its hope.

\--

John couldn't stay away from 221B for long. It drew him back, his pain and melancholy dragging at him like a tether. He had stayed away for 4 months. 4 months of dreary bed-sits, blank-faced landlords, paying his rent in cash and spending endless silent moments at therapy, watching Ella watch him, unable to make any progress. Finally when Mrs. Hudson calls for the 16th time, he answers.

"Is the flat still available?" He doesn't know what makes him ask, except its the only thing that he can do, in that moment. He supposes that means its what he wants.

"Come home, dear," is her answer.

\--

After the stranger leaves, John sits in his usual chair, staring blankly at the window. Could the girl be one of his Homeless Network, trying to send him a message? Was she just some anonymous nutter, another obsessed fan off her nut, believing in Sherlock a little too much? He bites down on his lip hard enough to taste a salty tang of blood seep into his mouth. Sherlock is dead. He can't - its not fair. He has to accept it, move on. Ella's right about that. Its bad enough he's staying in his - their flat. Even with most of the evidence of Sherlock gone - the mantel empty of skulls, mail on the table, not pierced with a dagger, kitchen devoid of erlenmeyer flasks and human remains. Just a normal flat. Mrs. Hudson is letting him stay there for half the rent, as if Sherlock's memory is paying for him. As if Sherlock wants him there.

_Fuck. Sherlock. Can you be alive? Who was that girl?_

_She was nobody. Forget about it, John._

Except that he can't. Either can't, or won't.


	2. Hello, Sherlock

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "You're real," John breathes.

So when John comes home the next day from work, tired and just a bit cross, to find Sherlock sitting in his usual chair, cross-legged, fingers steepled against his lips, John's first reaction is sudden, intense elation. Followed shortly by a burning fury that sends his him straight to that chair, fists clenched, and the first thing he does, to Sherlock, who is alive, is punch him square in the jaw.

Things go a bit pear-shaped after that.

Moments - minutes later, he is kneeling on the floor and Sherlock is bending towards him, those mercurial eyes fixed on him, long fingers grasping his shoulder tightly.

"John." His voice is low, urgent. He gives him a slight shake. "John," he says more forcefully, because John is breathing just a little too fast, his eyes are open just a little too wide, and he's gripping one arm of Sherlock's chair for support. Sherlock's fingers are real. They're steady and strong. He feels Sherlock's pulse faintly through the fabric of his shirt. 

Sherlock.

John reaches up and brushes a tentative touch to Sherlock's jaw, which has reddened after the blow. Sherlock doesn't flinch away. "You're real," John breathes.

"Obviously," Sherlock says, but there's no bite to his voice. The side of his mouth quirks up a fraction of an inch. A Sherlock smile. They breathe together for a second, John's fingers still resting lightly against Sherlock's face. 

"Hello, John," Sherlock says, and John feels an immense surge of joy jolt through him.

"Hello, Sherlock," he says, and they grin at each other.

\--

John sits in his chair. Sherlock has flopped down onto the couch and is pretending to stare into space, but keeps shooting him surreptitious sidelong glances. He looks thin - too thin, pale, and exhausted. He's been worn down in the 6 months of his absence. Hasn't been taking good care of himself. He never could take good care of himself when John wasn't around. The man is a walking textbook illustration of self-destructive tendencies. Pretends he's living some ascetic lifestyle, like a monk, but actually just can't be arsed to eat or sleep like a proper person. John studies him for awhile. Watches the rise and fall of his chest. He's wearing his red dressing gown over an unfamiliar suit. 

_Where has he been? Why did he go?_

"How are you alive?" John asks, deciding that was the most pressing question of about a million more he wants to ask. A few minutes of silence follow.

"Its complicated," Sherlock answers, and that isn't good enough. Not nearly good enough, and John says so, shoulders tensing.

"You need to tell me," he stresses, then stops, as a thought strikes him. "So that girl. She was...were you trying to send me a message or something?"

Sherlock is looking straight at him now, eyes narrowed. "Which girl? Describe her," he demands. 

John shifts a little, still unused to seeing Sherlock back in his usual space. Still the same imperious bastard he was before everything. Before the fall. And since John's still the same John, more or less (definitely a little less), he answers.

"She was, I dunno, in her teens. Late teens maybe? She looked a little bedraggled. Rainbow colored hair?" He shrugs. "Half shaved head, one eye green, one eye gray. Baggy leather jacket? That should do for her, if you've met her. She kind of stands out." He glances at Sherlock and raises an eyebrow. Sherlock is looking positively thunderous. Sitting up, scowling, eyes half-closed. "So you know her," John states.

"She's a member of the homeless network," Sherlock answers. "She wasn't supposed to tell you."

And just like that, John is angry again. "Wasn't supposed to tell me what, Sherlock? That you're _alive_? That you've been alive this whole time and you lied to me? That you let me think you were a fraud?" He gets up, and paces, agitation tugging at him. Its all just a little too much. Sherlock is still lying to him. He's back, but he's still lying. There is a mix of excitement and fury in his chest that is almost unbearable. He slams his fist down on the mantel, dislodging a few stray pieces of mail.

"Why didn't you tell me?" He says finally, shoulders slumped, facing away from Sherlock. He doesn't think he can even look at him although its an equal struggle to look away.

He hears Sherlock sigh. Hears the sofa creak as he gets up and feels a hand drop lightly onto his shoulder. 

"I was going to tell you myself," Sherlock says, "but I wasn't...I'm not ready. Its not the right time." His hand rests lightly on John's shoulder, and John feels a little warmth dribble into his chest. He feels like he's been cold for months.

"Not ready for what?" He asks, turning to face Sherlock. The man steps back a little, leaving his personal space, and John feels the cold begin to bleed back.

"John," Sherlock is gazing at him steadily, seriously, "you're still in danger."

"I don't mind a little danger," John says smiling a little. "You know that."

"This is real danger, John," Sherlock bites out, "not the kind we usually deal with. There's a man, a sort of a man." He stops, and looks away, frustrated, or angry.

"He's going to try to kill me," he says. "And he might actually succeed. And then he'll kill you."


End file.
